Page 54 of Red Mountain Burning
There was always action on the highway, cars and trucks whizzing by. Bellflour looked at the property he’d once owned on his side of the highway, a perfect plateau that would have been Drink Flamingo’s biggest project yet. How many nights had he sat up here, imagining the thousands of cars filling the lot with eager tourists whipping out their wallets? No, it wouldn’t have been the classiest establishment, but that’s not what Drink Flamingo was meant to be. Forget all the bozos on the mountain who had a problem with the idea. All he was trying to do was bring the foot traffic needed to make good money. Why was it so hard for people to understand how business worked?
It still hurt his heart to think about how he’d dropped the ball and let the project fall through. Not that it had been his fault. That bastard hydrologist had screwed up the analysis. Bellflour had tried to sue him and had lost quickly. But if Bellflour ever ran into that boy again, he’d kick him up and down the mountain and throw him off the overpass.
Looking over the highway, he could barely make out the silhouette of the mountain—but it was there, a jagged, horizontal line halfway up the sky. Not many lights out there. One flashing red light at the tip of the tower on top. Col Solare down the slope, lit up like a spaceship. Down lower, Margot Pierce’s inn. He shook his head, thinking of the woman with long, blond hair whom he’d once fancied. “What a tiger she is,” he said to the night. He recalled the night she’d rejected him and kicked him out. Some women were so easily offended.
After another long sip, he twisted his head to the left in order to face his own project. Knowing they weren’t the most popular winery on the mountain, he’d installed spotlights so no one was tempted to sabotage the project. Besides, he’d heard of people stealing tools and materials. Bellflour couldn’t afford any setbacks.
October first was the date he’d promised the board, and there was no way in hell he’d miss it.
Last year’s failure was still heavy on his mind, but he could see the light of redemption ahead. All the board members who had doubted him would now eat their words. The media would backpedal and offer their praise to one of the most important men in wine. And perhaps, most importantly, the people of Red Mountain would see that Harry Bellflour was not a man to laugh at.
At first, he had tossed around the idea of a Pacific Northwest-style building with giant timbers and sharp angles. He would call it White Hawk. It would have been a far cry from what they’d done in the past and almost the direct opposite of the wild theme park they’d been working on by the highway, but he felt like it would be a strong image boost and counterpoint to Drink Flamingo’s reputation as a bulk-juice, boxed-wine factory. Though Bellflour knew as well as anyone that one was judged by their lowest-priced product, at least they could provide an alternative view as to what Drink Flamingo stood for.
But on the way to present his idea to the board in Lodi, as he’d sipped a Jack and Coke Zero and thumbed through the ads in the in-flight magazine on the ascent, he’d had an epiphany. Why was he pushing to build something they, as a company, were not? Why did they have to create yet another stuffy winery? Drink Flamingo was about fun, and that’s what he’d ultimately started with as he opened his presentation. “Let’s be the brightest light on the mountain,” he’d said. “Hell, let’s be the brightest light in eastern Washington. I don’t want to be a stop on the wine trail. I want to bethestop.”
The great orator that he was, he’d painted an entirely different picture than the one he’d intended the day before, but he could see it so vividly now. And that’s why he considered himself a master of business development. He knew how to be flexible and make fast decisions. What he’d painted in the minds of the board members had been nothing short of brilliant. By the time he’d rested his case, his dazzled board members’ eyes had sparkled with dollar signs.
Squinting toward his property, he let images of the future come alive. He could see it all so clearly. His most ambitious project to date, perhaps his legacy. “You want to be rich,” he’d told his colleagues, jabbing his pointer at them, “I’ll make you filthy rich.”
He let the bright lights and loud noises exploding in his imagination drown the incessant laughter and doubt of the feeble-minded shits who would rather see him fail.
“It’s my mountain now,” he said, smacking his lips. He poured another glass, filling it to the brim. “My mountain.”
Casting his eyes back to the property that would soon be his legacy, he noticed a light that didn’t belong. Was someone out there? Was that a flashlight bouncing up and down on the outskirts of the property? It was too far away to be sure. He set down his glass and pushed out of his chair.
With nothing better to do, he decided to go check it out.
